A Body Worth Guarding
by Twinings
Summary: Oh, Arkham. What fun we've had within your walls.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: U menya nyet DC Comics._

_I've been gone a while. I'm sorry. Things are not shiny, except for the things that are._

_So. If you're a fan of the CATverse, then this is CATverse, taking place in 2004 when Squishy is 27. And if you're not a fan of the CATverse, then this is absolutely not CATfic and why would you even suggest such a thing?_

_Now that the first chapter is up, updates should be fairly regular. I've been working on this story off and on for...about five years now, I think. I keep dropping it because I don't like it, only to pick it up again six months later. I'll try not to do that again. (Note from a year later: Damn it all!)  
_

_Oh, and about the title? I was totally into _Starsky & Hutch_ last year for, literally, about three hours. Until I can think of something better, this is what you get._

_Trigger warning: This is an exploration of the events that led up to the episode "Lock-Up." There will be abuse. A small amount of it will be sexual in nature, which will not be explicit past its first occurrence. The majority will be physical punishment and psychological torment._

___As always, thanks for reading._

* * *

When Harley Quinzel was eleven years old and just beginning to show signs that there might be something interesting under her leotard, her best friend's brother, Walter, slipped her a note after gymnastics practice asking, "Will you be my girlfriend?" She put her check mark in the "yes" box. That was the beginning of her interaction with the opposite sex.

A decade later, not much had changed. The boys had learned different ways of asking, but they still hadn't learned a thing about subtlety—except for the one who mattered. Now she had checked her box for Mistah J in permanent ink, and everybody else just had to learn to live with it. She put them off firmly, sometimes with a rubber mallet or a surprise boxing glove to the face, because even if she had somehow lost her marbles and felt even the slightest bit of interest in grubby little Regular People, she knew her Puddin' wouldn't like the idea of having to share.

In Arkham, she wasn't allowed to play with rubber mallets. Still, she kept them off her, and even the stubborn ones decided she wasn't worth it when she dropped her sweetheart's name. So when the new security guy cornered her in the hall on the way to the rec room, naturally, she wasn't impressed. Even when everybody else filed past, leaving her alone with him, she didn't think much of it.

"What's a cute little thing like you doing in a place like this?" Gee, even his lines were lame. Not that she could expect much better from a meathead like this. Mistah J had just spoiled her for the masses. Why eat fish sticks when she could have caviar?

Actually, caviar made her yak just as much as anything else fishy. Maybe she should come up with a better metaphor.

"What I'm doing," she said calmly to the leering creep who held her cornered, "is I'm going to the rec room for my Monday night poker game. Harv gets real touchy if I make him wait, so do you mind if I get going, um…Larry, was it?" she finished, borrowing Mistah J's inflection. The beefcake slammed his hands against the wall on either side of her head. Harley rolled her eyes, knowing that what he wanted was for her to flinch.

"You're not going anywhere, doll."

Frowning, she pushed his hands aside.

"Haven't you heard? I'm taken, _pal_."

He slammed her back against the wall, pawing her chest with all the finesse of a high school jock. And he smiled at her like he knew something she didn't. Suddenly, she wanted a shower very much.

"That clown doesn't scare me, girlie. Now, listen up. You're a bright enough girl; you used to be a doctor. You know how things work. This is me giving you your chance to play nice."

Because she couldn't think of anything funnier, she tried to knee him in the crotch. He trapped her leg with his own, forcing her knees apart. She tried to punch him. He caught her wrist and held her hand away from his face.

"What's going on here?"

Harley breathed a sigh of relief. She had never been so happy to see her own psychiatrist.

"Dr. Blackwell, get this guy offa me!" she screeched.

The security guy sounded unbelievably smug as he countered, "I was trying to explain to Miss Quinn the importance of good behavior. I certainly wasn't trying to provoke an attack."

"You _liar_!" She struggled to punch his smarmy face in. He calmly bent her wrist back. "Doc, can't you see he's _groping_ me?" Dr. Blackwell, raised an eyebrow. Harley looked down. His hand was on her shoulder. "He—he said he wasn't scared of Mr. J," she added. "And…he smiled at me," she finished lamely.

"Harley, I know you have your problems with authority figures," Dr. Blackwell started in, "but—" She interrupted him by slamming her own head into the wall with a loud bang. It was bad enough listening to his inane prattle in therapy. She didn't think she could handle it in her free time, too.

"Can I _please_ just go to the rec room?"

"Oh, no," the security guy said smoothly. "I _really_ don't think she should be allowed to fly off the handle like that without any consequences."

"You're absolutely right," Dr. Blackwell agreed. "Would you mind escorting her back to her cell?"

"_What_? But I didn't _do_ anything! You can't take away my privileges when I'm being _good_! You wait'll I tell my Puddin' about this! He'll turn your kidneys into bongo drums!"

She was still ranting when the cell door slammed shut on her.

-0-

"Harley ain't coming. Go on and deal."

Two-Face shook his head, shuffling the cards again, fanning them back and forth between the whole hand and the scarred one.

"The coin says we wait."

On his right, Killer Croc bared his teeth in something like a smile.

"The coin say anything about tearin' off her head and suckin' out the insides?"

Two-Face frowned.

"I haven't asked."

Across the table, the Riddler was looking a little nervous. This was his first time joining their game, since Hands McGee was out early for good behavior, and Croc was going to town, scaring the fresh meat. Harley wasn't part of their usual group either, but she made a fair enough substitute for the Joker…when she showed up.

"She really isn't coming, you know," the Scarecrow said without looking up from his chess board. Croc and Two-Face ignored him. The Riddler was more easily distracted.

"Why do you say that?"

The Scarecrow took a moment to put the Mad Hatter's king in check, bringing a frown to the other man's face.

"She would be here by now, wouldn't she. Or didn't you see the way our new security chief was looking at her?"

"You don't think he'd hurt her, do you?" came an anxious voice from behind Harvey. Arnold Wesker was the man's name, though he rarely worked up the nerve to speak to anyone in his own voice. The puppet on his hand, now, _he_ made his opinions known, loudly and often.

"Dame like that, anyone can look. You seen the chassis on her?" His wooden jaw clacked. The Ventriloquist looked mortified. "The Dummy here's dizzy with her."

"Mr. Scarface!"

"Relax, Dummy. It ain't like I'm spillin' to the Joker."

The Scarecrow and the Mad Hatter went back to their chess game. Scarecrow kept watching, concerned with anxiety as always, and looking for an opportunity to spread it. But he gave the main part of his attention to beating the Hatter.

"C'mon," said Croc. "Strawman's right, it's been long enough. Give it another flip or let somebody else deal."

"I'll take the skirt's place," the puppet offered. "Siddown, Dummy. Fellas, deal me in."

The Riddler snickered. Scarface's painted eyes jerked sideways in an eerie glare.

"Somethin' funny, pally?"

"How are you going to hold the cards?"

"Oh, dear," Wesker muttered anxiously, shoving Scarface in the Riddler's face.

"You got a problem with me?"

The Riddler knocked the doll away.

"Grow up, Arnold."

"Hey!" Scarface bellowed as the ventriloquist's eyes widened in horror. "You got somethin' to say, you say it to my _face_!" With a flick of Wesker's wrist, Scarface's wooden hand shot out and cracked across the Riddler's cheek.

He came over the table, yelling something nobody understood, while Wesker babbled, "I'm sorry! It wasn't me!" and held up his free hand to defend himself.

He would have done better to protect Scarface. The Riddler snatched the puppet off his hand and held it above his head. Wesker jumped to grab it back. The Riddler climbed up on top of the card table, scattering his pile of chips.

Two-Face and Croc moved back from the table. This was the best show Arkham had given in months.

"Dummy! Tell this guy to put me down!"

"P-please, Mr. Riddler," the ventriloquist stammered.

The Riddler laughed. No surprise; it was the first real respect he'd gotten from another inmate, even one as tremulous and ineffective as Arnold. It had to be a boost to his ego.

He rattled the puppet tauntingly.

"Tell me this, Arn—"

"Riddle me this," someone yelled from across the room.

"Okay, _riddle_ me this. What—"

"What are these lunatics up to now?"

Exasperated, the Riddler lowered Mr. Scarface.

"Am I not allowed to finish a—"

"Get him off the table." A pair of orderlies pushed past the inmates. Two-Face moved out of their way. He liked those two, mismatched as the sun and the moon and both named Jones. They seized the Riddler by the elbows and dragged him over to the security chief waiting by the door.

"Get off me, you cretins! I've done nothing to deserve this!" He twisted around to glare at the security chief. Ignoring him, Bolton plucked the puppet from his hand, turned it upside down and gave it a shake, and dismissed it.

"What do we do with troublemakers around here, Jones?"

"I'm not making trouble! _He_ started it!" It wasn't quite clear whether he was trying to point out Wesker or the doll.

"Take him away, boys."

"But…" He struggled to break free, demanding Bolton's attention. The other man didn't even look up as the orderlies dragged him away.

The look on the Riddler's face was downright pitiful.

Just about everyone found some quiet occupation in which to be completely absorbed, hoping Bolton would be satisfied. Two-Face was one of the few who wasn't afraid to look at him.

The man's eyes were cold as hell. And he smiled. There was no pleasure or amusement in him, but he smiled nonetheless. There was no internal conflict when Two-Face decided to avoid a confrontation.

The Riddler's fruitless protests dwindled into the distance. No one moved to help him. The Scarecrow was frowning, but he wasn't going to stand up to a bully more than twice his size.

Bolton watched them from the doorway, the puppet dangling forgotten by one leg, meeting every eye that dared to look at him, and forcing each and every gaze away.

After hesitating until the tension built to a silent scream, Wesker finally made up his mind to approach Bolton, haltingly, sweat beading on his forehead as he twisted his hands in nervousness.

"Um, sir?" he said breathlessly. "Could I—that is, may I—c-could I have M-m-mister Scarface back, please?"

Bolton let the doll dangle lifelessly.

"What this? This old thing? You want it back?" he taunted.

"Y-y-yessir."

"Hmm. I think…not. You people shouldn't be allowed all these personal items. They're only good for causing trouble."

"B-b-but—"

"Don't let this goof talk to ya like that, Dummy!" Scarface's voice grated out. "He aint in charge here. Stand up to someone for once in your life."

"I—I—" Wesker stared up (and up and up) at Bolton, trying to force something assertive past the lump in his throat.

"How about this, Dummy?" Bolton smirked. "You go sit down and keep your mouth shut, and maybe I won't feed your friend here to the termites."

"T-t-termites?" The voice wavered between Scarface's harsh growl and Wesker's natural voice, hoarse with anxiety.

"Termites."

Wesker's knees buckled, dumping him on the floor like a sack of grain. Even in that position, he swayed unsteadily, as if he were about to faint.

He was still like that an hour later when the guards returned to drive them all back to their cells.

-0-

There was murmuring in the halls. Murmuring about Harley, who was on good terms with just about everyone, and about the Riddler, of whom no one was particularly fond, but who was still one of them. Murmuring about Wesker, who was shuffling about, lost, hardly seeming to notice the occasional shoves Two-Face gave him to keep him moving. Murmuring about other, lesser men whose complaints had been easily ignored until then.

The Scarecrow's interest was piqued. His fellow inmates were unsettled—with any luck (and maybe a few helpful nudges from an interested party) this could boil over into something _really_ entertaining. (And informative, he reminded himself. But after six dreary weeks in Arkham Asylum, anyone would be hungry for _any_ kind of entertainment.)

The Riddler had been deftly handled. After all, what did Nygma fear more than being ignored? He certainly wouldn't be getting much attention in solitary.

At least, Crane assumed he'd been taken to solitary. Wherever he was, he wasn't in his empty cell, the sight of which started the muttering afresh.

"He's gone," a nameless goon said, almost confidentially, to the Mad Hatter, who stumbled into Crane's path, startled by the man's sudden appearance at his elbow.

"We can see _that_," Crane snapped. He pushed the off-balance Tetch away. If he couldn't keep his footing, let someone else catch him.

"But, where is he? That guy didn't kill him or anything, did he? When will he be back?"

_Idiot_, Crane thought to himself. No one was going to be _killed_. Bolton might have authority over them, but there had to be _some_ oversight.

"I think you might do something better with the time," said Tetch, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers."

"But…are you on _his_ side—" He went silent suddenly, staring. Crane followed the direction of his gaze.

There was Bolton, glaring at them with an oddly malevolent smirk. He had his arms crossed just so as to accentuate the bulge in his biceps, Crane noticed. There was very little he could have done to improve the performance.

"That's enough chitchat, you scum. It's time we had a little more discipline around here."

The three of them filed past very quietly. Then the Mad Hatter let out a small, derisive sniff.

"Eat me," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Bolton demanded immediately. Tetch stopped. Everyone else drew back from him, riveted on the unfolding spectacle but unwilling to become a part of it.

With a broad smile, he repeated, "Eat. Me."

The veins in Bolton's neck stood out when he was angry, Crane noticed just before a vicious roundhouse sent the Hatter slamming into the far wall.

The entire corridor went profoundly silent. The only sound was settling dust and plaster. Tetch lay unmoving on the ground.

The dent where his head had hit the wall was impressive.

"Go get him a doctor," Bolton ordered the other guard. The _only_ other guard.

The inmates fidgeted as one; they might have suddenly developed a hive mind. All surly bravado melted away. They were going to be left _alone_ with the psycho?

The very smug-looking psycho. The entire group shifted around as the other guard left, giving Bolton a few more inches of personal space, as much as was possible in the confines of the hallway.

They gave Jervis just as wide a berth, as if cracked skulls were catching. As, in this case, they might well be.

The Scarecrow was just a bit too distracted to be properly intimidated. It took something more than the usual type of bully to scare the crazies that way, all of them, the entire group shocked into immobility. That was probably why he made the mistake of meeting Bolton's eyes when everyone else was looking at something, anything, safer.

"You got a problem?"

It took a few seconds for the Scarecrow to realize that the burly guard was talking to _him_. The others were quicker on the uptake, shuffling away from him until he was his own little island. He glanced around at them, mildly annoyed-and it finally occurred to him that his entire potential support system had just been neutralized. Harley, Edward and Jervis wouldn't have stuck their necks out for his sake, but they would have made some show of solidarity, or, at the very least, Harley would have given him a shove to remind him to look away.

"I have no problem with you. I think you're doing rather well, actually, for a common thug." There was a collective gasp, the likes of which he hadn't heard since high school, when one of the less popular cheerleaders had called the pack leader on her sexual proclivity at a pep rally. He had thought these lunatics would have a bit more…well, _maturity_ wasn't the word for it…

"You want to say that again, Scarecrow?" Bolton asked dangerously. He almost laughed. Didn't, quite, but a smirk tugged at his mouth just the same.

"All right. I know repetition is the most effective teaching tool there is for..._some_ people." He was aware that he was asking for a beating. He was also aware that this musclebound ape wasn't going to do anything to him that he couldn't endure. Properly timed, someone with authority would show up before he could receive anything more substantial than a few bruises. Maybe Bolton would be fired when he was seen abusing a(nother) poor, defenseless mental patient. A mild reprimand was far more likely, but still. The more foolish Bolton looked now, the less effective his bullying would be later. And a man like this had to _fear_ looking foolish and ineffectual.

"I said…" Scarecrow exaggerated his enunciation, as he would have done with a small child. "That you're doing…very…well. You're accomplishing what you've set out to do. You might make a bigger impression if you picked someone a little more intimidating than the _Mad Hatter_, but..."

"You tryin' to tell me to pick on someone my own size?"

"No, I wouldn't suggest that. There _isn't_ anyone your own size. But you should remember that bullying one person doesn't necessarily keep the _rest_ of the playground in line."

It was a threat, a fairly obvious one, and Bolton knew it. He went red in the face, but didn't quite lose his cool.

_Mess with one of us, and you mess with all of us._ Yes, a united front would have to scare the big ape. It was the only way they could pose any real threat to his power. And the loonies _were_ capable of such camaraderie, with a little finesse and the right leadership, if only for a short time. Crane knew that any such alliance would break apart well before the object of their wrath lost control, but he was counting on Bolton not knowing it.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have misjudged the goon. And when those meaty fists slammed into the wall on either side of him, he did the worst thing imaginable: he flinched.

Things only went downhill from there.


	2. Chapter 2

"Then what happened?" Harley leaned forward, hunger gleaming in her big blue eyes. Her companion shrugged uncomfortably. He had long since given up on trying to tell her that he hadn't actually been there, or that his name wasn't Kite Man, or that he didn't know what had happened to the purple crayon.

"The doc showed up, I guess," he suggested. "Shuffled Hatter off to the infirmary. Nobody's seen him since."

"You don't think he's _dead_, do you?" Harley squeaked, with all the sick pleasure of a junior varsity cheerleader speculating about the prom queen's three month bulge. Phil could only shake his head helplessly, not that Harley really cared at all what _he_ thought. "What about Riddles? Still in the hole?"

"They won't be letting him out any time soon." He could say that with confidence. More than a few of the guys he actually knew had disappeared into the hole weeks before the Riddler, and not one of them had been heard from since.

"Wow, this guy's good," Harley said, a little dejectedly. "Eddie must be goin' nuts down there without an audience." They both avoided looking over at Arnold Wesker, alone in the corner. There was no need to ask how _he_ had been affected by his encounter with Bolton. "So where's Professor Crane?" Harley asked in an unusually subdued tone. Phil frowned a little, confused by the uncharacteristic abandonment of the bubbly.

"I think they switched his schedule around," he suggested. "Extra therapy in the afternoon, rec hour in the morning."

"_Group_ therapy, I'll bet," Harley muttered.

"What makes you say that?" She let out her breath with a soft _psht_.

"You know the guy, don't ya? He don't do so hot in groups. 'Specially when he's the new guy. You know how it is with these animals trying to establish their dominance within the pack dynamic." She laughed tentatively. "I mean, just look at him. A guy like that is beggin' for a wedgie."

"Uh-huh." There didn't seem to be much more to add. She wasn't listening, anyway.

"Boy, I sure wish Red was here," Harley mused. "She'd put the big dummy in his place, all right."

"Red?"

"Poison Ivy. You know her? Great girl. Baaad with security alarms."

She launched into the story of Poison Ivy at the Museum, and Phil settled back, knowing he was doomed until the end of rec time.

-0-

Jonathan Crane wasn't the type to look out for anyone's interests but his own. He would never, for example, go for the old buddy picture move of faking an illness or an injury - or, worse, sustaining an injury for real - just to get a chance to see for himself that the rumors of the Mad Hatter's demise were, in fact, exaggerated.

He was, however, opportunist enough to keep his eyes and ears open when his psychiatrist noticed him walking with a limp too severe for even Arkham staff to ignore, and sent him down for an examination.

There was no sign of Tetch in the infirmary.

When the overly chipper nurse asked him what he could possibly have been doing to sprain the muscles in his back so badly, he could have gone with his first instinct, which was to explain that a man was apt to injure _something_ trying to get away from the seven and a half foot tall lizard man holding him down, even if the entire group was careful to do nothing that left a mark.

Instead, he remarked acidly, "I certainly wasn't playing _chess_. My usual opponent was nowhere to be seen." He was careful to avoid calling Tetch his chess _partner_; the staff got funny ideas if any of the inmates seemed to be acting too friendly. He did add, "People," (_other_ people, of course) "are starting to worry."

The nurse's smile faltered a little, as if she were having trouble keeping it in place. But she remained bright.

"There's nothing to worry about, Professor Crane. Jervis took a nasty bump on the head, but he's going to be just fine. He's just not ready to be back within the general population just yet. _You_ know how it is," she added with insulting emphasis. "If somebody takes a spill, he's liable to take another one. Speaking of which, this is probably enough to warrant a couple of days of bed rest here, if you'd prefer not to go back to your cell."

"No," he said curtly. He had no inclination to waste his time talking to this idiot.

"Or the _yard_?" Flinching from the sudden sharpness of her tone, he turned his gaze to the window, which he now realized overlooked the walled-in courtyard where Killer Croc and the others had taken him aside to introduce themselves. She must have had a perfect view.

"Hmph."

"Or the halls? Especially the ones where it's so easy to get someone off alone? The ones with the broken security cameras? Funny that _those_ haven't been replaced, when Mr. B's introducing so many other security measures. But, hey, what are you going to do? They cut our funding. Again. I guess we have to make _some_ sacrifices."

"I've never known your type to interfere."

"You don't know my type," she said coolly. "Besides, I was lying about Jervis. Hospital policy, you know. He's not fine. He's almost the exact opposite of fine, if you really want to know, and if he doesn't start to show some improvement soon, he's going to have to be transferred to another facility. But you didn't hear that from me."

Crane scrutinized the woman, searching for any of the telltale signs that she had been chipped. She was young and blonde, and Tetch wasn't always so obvious as to leave a giant calling card as big as an open palm. But her movements were natural, her speech easy and coherent, and her eyes alert, with none of the glazed desperation he had come to associate with Hatter minions. Besides, she wasn't wearing anything on her head, not even so much as a hairpin.

"What's your angle?" he grumbled.

"Look at where I work. Maybe I should have thought it through before I took the job, but blood makes me queasy, and dead bodies really ick me out." She was laughing at him now, he sensed, and he responded by bristling.

"How touching."

"It wasn't supposed to be touching, Scarecrow," the nurse said easily. "I'm just trying to make my own life easier. Lyle Bolton is bigger than you, stronger, scarier, and he has all the power. You're supposed to be one of the smart ones; I hope you're smart enough to know that you can't take him on and win."

That was rather a simplistic view of things, Crane thought. Bullies rarely waited around for their victims to cooperate. But all he said was, "Write me a note, then. I'd like to be excused from gym."

-0-

After she had left her patient, the young woman's hand stole into her pocket, where a thick wad of cash nestled under her keys and lipstick. For a supposedly brilliant psychologist, Professor Crane had been even easier to manipulate than she'd been told. She'd virtually guaranteed that he would have it out with the security chief soon, and in a spectacular manner. Her work was going to be, if anything, more hectic.

She stroked the roll of bills, a slight smile on her face.

It was worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

The way the cells were set up, with their plexiglass walls, the inmates had very little in the way of privacy. Harley Quinn could wake up any time in the night, sit up, and look in on the Scarecrow thrashing around in the middle of a nightmare, or Two-Face and Hatter on either side of him. And he, if he had been there, could have seen her nestled in between Riddles and Puppethead. If he had been there. And if Riddles and Hat Guy had, too.

Funny how their hall was clearing out so fast.

In the morning, when they lined up for breakfast, Harley made sure to stay close to the Ventriloquist. She'd tried it with Two-Face at first, but she'd gotten a bad flip and he'd knocked her down. She didn't mind so much - his aim wasn't as good as Mr. J's, and anyway, she'd had time to see it coming - but it had caused a big ruckus, especially after that lady who was into shiny things tripped over her and started screeching, and Fathead had used the disruption as an excuse to get her alone for a stern dressing down. She wouldn't be letting _that_ happen again.

No, if there was one good thing about Arnie, it was that he never attracted any attention to himself. He never did much of anything these days, not with that annoying puppet no longer hanging off his wrist. And if Arnold couldn't help ogling her tush when he thought she wasn't looking, well, she had dealt with worse. She was willing to put up with it as long as he provided her with a warm body to put between herself and the jackass.

Bolton wasn't around that morning, but Harley stayed close to the Ventriloquist anyway. If the big jerk was waiting around a corner or something...

She was getting paranoid in her old age. She just wished her Puddin was there. No one would dare come near her if she were. It was almost enough to make a girl wish Batman would get off his duff and do some detective work.

You know, _almost_. She'd work through this on her own, just wait and see.

Just as long as she had her human shield, nothing could touch her.

-0-

That afternoon, Wesker's psychiatrist finally won the battle to have his dummy returned to him, as the separation was clearly doing him more harm than good.

Arnold and Mr. Scarface sat with Two-Face at lunch, expounding on the indignities of being locked in a supply closet with a jar of termites, even with the lid on. Harley was forced to join them or else be left to her own devices, prompting Scarface to exclaim, "Whoa, mama! Ain't you a sight for sore eyes."

She was almost relieved when, at Bolton's sudden appearance in the doorway, the doll's mouth slammed shut. Bolton stayed there for the rest of the meal, and Scarface remained uncharacteristically quiet. Even his painted eyes were trained away from Harley's cleavage.

-0-

By nightfall, the Scarecrow was back in his cell, and Harley was ready to pretend that everything was going back to normal. She fell asleep clutching the doll she'd made in arts and crafts out of purple felt and scotch tape. (Glue was off limits because of the time she'd smuggled some out and passed it off as plastic explosive. And even she didn't like to think about why she wasn't allowed to use a needle and thread.)

A bang like a gunshot startled her awake sometime in the night. She fell out of bed, flailing comically, having forgotten that Mr. J wasn't there to see her.

She sat up, looked blearily out into the hallway, and met Professor Crane's eyes. He looked just as confused as she was.

Frowning, Harley crept up to the glass. There was nothing going on out there but the sound of heavy footsteps clomping down the hall.

"What happened?" she called out softly. The professor shrugged.

"He was gone before I woke up. But you know who it was."

"Tellin' us he sees us when we're sleeping," Harley agreed. They both glared in the direction of the diminishing footsteps.

When they looked at each other again, Professor Crane seemed to be thinking harder than usual. He said nothing, but Harley had the feeling they would be talking in the morning.

-0-

With morning meds came a visit from everyone's favorite security chief. Bolton didn't interfere, just watched while the Scarecrow downed his pills (two painkillers today, on top of the usual mess) along with a paper thimble of water. When it was over, he smiled unpleasantly and left.

"What was that all about?" Harley asked during the brief mingling in the hallway between being let out of their rooms and forming ranks to march down to breakfast.

"I have no idea. Maybe he's secretly addicted to vicodin, and he's planning to steal mine."

Harley smiled.

"Maybe he has a pill fetish. Gets off on seein' guys choke down their meds."

"That would explain his penchant for inflicting pain."

"Ooh, Professor Crane! Does somebody have a secret admirer?" She giggled, and he actually smiled back a little, though it was really more of a smirk.

"I can believe that man is hiding all sorts of deviant personality traits."

The guards called for them to move their asses to the cafeteria. Harley stuck like a burr to the Scarecrow's side.

"Professor Crane?" He looked down at her, anticipating an earnest question. "This is...this is pretty bad, huh?" He chuckled faintly.

"Oh, child, I almost forgot this was your first time in. Yes, this is _pretty_ bad. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say this is the worst I've ever seen it."

"Oh." She tried to put on a brave face. He didn't buy it.

"We're going to get rid of him," he assured her.

"We are?"

"Of course we are. Look at us. We regularly go up against Batman. This is a thug with a nightstick. Frankly, I'm amazed he's lasted this long."

"Gee. You got a plan?"

"Always," he said smugly.

Harley nodded decisively. If there was anyone who could manipulate this situation to his advantage, it was Professor Crane. No one else was better suited to ferreting out the fathead's weaknesses. And to exploit them would take intelligence, access, and possibly some training in advanced psychology.

"Tell me what I can do to help."


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's note: Um, oops. I've gone a really long time without posting anything. I swear, my life has been one catastrophe after another the last couple of months. Computers dying, spines snapping, libraries exploding-and I'm exaggerating, but only a little. So, thanks for being patient, and I apologize for the short chapter, but the second half of this needs to be rewritten, which I can't do on my dead computer, and won't have time to finish in the library before the construction crew gets back. If I don't post it by the end of this week, it probably means I'm dead._

_Oh, and to the anonymous reviewer who's been upsetting my friends: what, don't _I_ merit nasty, unhelpful meanness to which I can't hope to retaliate? Fair's fair. Go on. Hurt me._

_-bows out-_

* * *

The guards escorting Crane to his morning therapy session were quick to lose patience with his speed. He certainly wasn't putting forth any effort to accommodate them in their impatience, but when one of them shoved him and told him to hurry up, he felt justified telling them to take it up with the infirmary if they weren't happy with his current capabilities.

Then Bolton showed up. Crane didn't panic, not outwardly, when he told the regular guards to take a hike.

"Both of us?" one asked, for form's sake. Technically, it was against the rules for any inmate to wander the halls with fewer than two escorts, but any idiot could see that Bolton was in no physical danger.

"Go on; someone's needed in the dining hall. Dent's trying to sneak out an extra fruit cup again."

Crane watched them go, and restrained himself from calling after them. His mouth felt dry. It was one thing to be ready to fight back, and quite another to be left _alone_ with this lunatic.

Bolton was watching him, his eyes just a little too focused, his smile a little too broad.

"How are you feeling today, Scarecrow? Those pain pills doing it for you?"

"Well enough," he snapped. Bolton chuckled unpleasantly.

"Good. I'd hate to think there was any truth to what they say." Crane didn't dignify that with a response. Bolton hardly seemed to notice. "Working in a place like this, you hear stories of disgruntled employees switching around the patients' medications. One guy gets an overdose and dies, the other skips his antidepressants and hangs himself. Funny thing is, you can pass them both off as suicides."

For a moment, Crane's gut clenched as he tried to picture what Bolton could have substituted in without anyone noticing. Then he forced himself to laugh.

"You wouldn't be trying to _scare_ me, would you?"

One moment, they were rounding a corner; the next, Bolton had him slammed up against a wall. He fought back instinctively, not that it did him any good. With all the much larger man's weight pressing in on his chest, he couldn't even have called for help. If he'd wanted to.

When his panicky hand flapping started to slow, Bolton ducked his head to speak directly into Crane's ear.

"When I want you scared, you'll _be_ scared." Then he eased off.

Crane's eyes closed as he started to take a relieved breath. Otherwise he would have seen the punch coming. As it happened, the fist plowed into his soft stomach with a sound very much like throwing a steak at a brick wall. He dropped to his knees, hunched over, trying to brace himself for a second blow.

It never came.

After a few seconds, when Crane could breathe again and he didn't feel quite so seasick, he lurched to his feet, glaring at Bolton with impotent hatred. Bolton, of course, looked amused.

Crane stole a glance down the hall and confirmed that he was now in view of the security camera. Trust the chief of security to take full advantage of his own dead spots.

"I'd like to see you try that again." Just let him have some evidence to take to the asylum director, or anyone else with any power.

Of course, Bolton didn't take it that way.

"Oh, I will, Scarecrow. Don't worry. I will."


End file.
